


The Consequences of Missing Cats and Karaoke Night

by EllyAvon



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Because Phil is a Nerd, Bickering, Christmas, Christmas songs, Feels, Gen, Harry Potter References, M/M, Phil is an Avenger, Singing avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllyAvon/pseuds/EllyAvon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Feelstide 2015 for the prompt "The Great Caroling Disaster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consequences of Missing Cats and Karaoke Night

The problem Phil Coulson had with Avengers Karaoke Night, after the fact, was not the property damage.

No, it was not the property damage (which was minimal compared so many other Avengers endeavors he could mention), or the embarrassment of his husband singing the most provocative songs in Britney Spears’ repertoire (it was a lot of songs. It garnered Clint a lot of attention that Phil was not necessarily pleased about. He’s possessive. Sue him. He’ll show anyone who looks at Clint a little sideways what’s _li-li-like a circus_ ).

It wasn’t Steve drinking Thor’s liquor and starting to cry about the pet cats displaced by the mess today’s op ended up being. Or Steve following it up by singing _Memory_ from Cats. Though, admittedly, that was pretty bad. Both the crying and the cat thing. The singing wasn’t bad, just-- wow. Phil has been trained to handle a lot but seeing his childhood hero drunkenly belting out showtunes had not necessarily been on his bucket list.

It wasn’t Stark purchasing the bar outright and taking over for the DJ. He’s an unsurprisingly good master of ceremonies. He’s also a surprisingly good singer, they find out, when he bursts into an a cappella Cole Porter medley. Phil is glad he has a drink in his hand for _You’re the Top._

It wasn’t the terrifying power ballad Thor sang that ended with all of their hair sticking out like they’d been electrified. Or Natasha producing a dryer sheet out of nowhere and petting everyone’s head with it until their hair was relatively normal again. Phil promises himself she will stop surprising him someday.

It wasn’t even Bruce’s heartbreaking rendition of _It’s Not Easy Being Green._

It was Sasha.

It was the fact that Sasha Jensen, the new Avengers PR Manager, was present for the entire evening and karaoke night gave her a terrible, terrible idea.

She’s sitting across from him in his office, looking not at all like she was at what used to be Mick’s Karaoke Bar and is now _Avengers Fun Time Excellent Drinking Space Sponsored by Tony Stark_ until two in the morning.

Sasha sticks out among the straight-faced navy-and-black-clad SHIELD agents like google glasses on a Ren Faire worker. She’s got a cloud of wavy gold-blonde hair, big brown eyes that Stark should be jealous of, and a propensity for wearing pastel clothing patterned with hearts and flowers. She has a wide, easygoing smile, and a disarming giggle.

The SHIELD agents are terrified of her, and rightfully so.

Phil doesn’t usually say things like this, because it betrays his nerd-dom even more than usual, but--

Sasha is a _Slytherin._

She’s absolutely, no questions asked, a sneaky, vicious little snake that Phil is utterly proud to have on his team. He’s honestly glad to have another one, because Natasha must get lonely in her hypothetical common room and the Slytherin brand of effectiveness is very valuable. It’s even better, really, that she comes in such a fluffy package. No one anticipates a viper strike from a teddy bear.

Today, she’s wearing a sweater that features penguins kissing. Their beaks and bodies form a heart in the middle. He’s surprised his dentist hasn’t called to inquire about his new cavities.

“It would be great,” she says earnestly. She looks like she could be Steve’s little sister when she’s like this and it’s disarming as hell.

“No,” he says, and sets to ignoring her.

“They can all sing. Every last one of them,” she persists.

“I agree with that. I do not agree to allowing them to Carol at Rockefeller Center.”

There’s a long beat of silence. She’s smirking at him when he looks up from his computer, “Oh Phil,” she says quietly, “but you will agree.” And there’s the Slytherin, Phil thinks. It’s really not that much fun when it’s turned against him. It’s probably his inner Gryffindor.

Phil is not a person with whom it is a good idea to fuck. He raises an eyebrow at her, “is that so?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, her vowels forming long and careful. She sounds like Clint when he’s sleepy or intoxicated; the only times Phil can tell that Clint is, in fact, most likely of Scandinavian descent and from Waverly, Iowa. “You see, they have to do something. Stark really can’t afford to make a big enough donation to call any attention away from his other philanthropic endeavors, especially since he’s agreed to fund clean up in SoHo. The volunteer work the team does is lovely, but it’s too low-profile to do much more than keep their approval steady,” she pauses, “we can’t really handle staying steady, at the moment, Phil.”

She’s, sadly, correct. Due to a series of highly unfortunate events, yesterday, the Avengers had been forced to send about two-thirds of the pet cats in New York City into the negative zone. The public backlash is staggeringly painful.

In their defense, the cats had grown to three times their normal, lap-sitting, sizes and been under mind-control. This fact is somehow not comforting to the literally million cat owners currently missing their furry companions at the holiday season.

“Steve can only make so many adorable moving speeches, Phil. They’re going to sing at Rockefeller Center.”

It still sounds like a terrible idea. They might be able to tolerate karaoke night, but there’s a reason that that none of them are in showbusiness. Anymore.

“Why should I say yes to this?” Phil finally asks. “You can figure something else out.”

She looks down at her nails. They’re manicured in a soft baby-pink, “Because I learned something else last night.”

He keeps his expression smooth and cool, “and what is that, Ms. Jensen?”

“All of the Avengers can sing, it’s true,” she says airily, “they all can sing, and, they can dance. Every. Last. One of them. Especially Hawkeye.” She flutters her eyelashes at him. “My other idea is putting Barton and the rest of them on Dancing With the Stars and letting them battle it out with celebutantes and athletes. What do you think, Phil?”

 

* * *

 

“No,” Natasha says.

“Fuck no,” Tony seconds.

“What is caroling?” Thor booms,

“Caroling is bullshit, Thor,” Clint supplies helpfully.

“I’m just going to be really honest and say that I don’t want to,” Bruce supplies.

“Yeah,” Steve says sheepishly, “I kinda liked the idea that my dancing monkey days were over.”

For all that he got barrelled over this afternoon, Phil is proud of Sasha, who’s standing in front of six of the most powerful beings on earth with her arms crossed and only a penguin sweater for armor.

“It’s singing,” she says firmly, “or your dancing days will be just beginning.”

Tony narrows his eyes, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’ve been in contact with NBC and they want all of you on for next season of Dancing with the Stars. But I will let you out of it,” she says magnanimously, as though she didn’t set the whole thing up herself, “if you sing three songs on Christmas Eve.”

Phil thinks he might adopt her, even though it remains to be a horrible idea.

“But-” Clint starts, and she stops him with a glare.

She then reaches down into her rose-pink briefcase and slams a huge folder down on the table.

“What’s...?” Bruce starts.

“The cats,” Natasha says.

“The cats,” Phil and Sasha chorus with a sigh.

Clint begins rifling through the pictures, his nose squinching up, “Well, shit,” he mutters, holding up a picture of a tiny calico snuggled up with a little kid. Steve’s eyes are watering up again.

“Yes,” Sasha enunciates primly, “utter bullshit.”

“Ah!” Thor says, “like caroling!”

 

* * *

 

“Make Stark sing soprano.”

“Excuse me, I have always sung tenor, you should hear me do Nessun Dorma.”

“Great, you sing tenor, I don’t want to sing tenor.”

“You’re not singing tenor, Barton, you’re singing alto.”

“I’m not a girl!”

“You spent 90% of last Friday singing Britney Spears. You’re singing the alto part. You can take it down an octave if you want.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Liar.”

 

* * *

 

“Stop! Stop! Thor, what the hell language are you singing in?”

“It’s--”

“Nevermind. Try the English version, okay? Silent Night.”

“We could do it in German!”

“Yeah, we all speak German, right?”

“May as well do it right if we’re going to do it.”

“I suppose,” Sasha says to Phil, “I should be glad there’s any enthusiasm at all.”

“That would be wise, yes.”

They stood by as the team bickered about whether to translate the song themselves or use the traditional wording.

 

* * *

 

“How many verses of this song are there?”

“Twelve.”

“Are we doing all of them?”

“Do you think we can remember all of them?”

“Everybody but Barton.”

“Fuck you, I can do all of them right now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

_“On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to meeee...”_

Everyone learns that Clint Barton does, in fact, know every word of the Twelve Days of Christmas and his lung capacity is incredibly impressive.

Phil is caught once again in that place between annoyance and pride. He spends a lot of time there.

 

* * *

 

“Is this song racist now?”

“No, Steve, _I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas_ is not racist now.”

“Are you sure? Lots of things are racist now-- or-- sorry, were always racist-- and I don’t want to--”

“It’s about snow, Steve.”

“I just--”

“It’s fine, Cap.”

“Okay, but can we do a different one anyway?”

 

* * *

 

“I will not request backup from strangers!”

“That’s not really what the song’s about.”

“Asking them to ferry light to us? I have been told we will be singing beneath an enormous pine with the boughs covered in electric lights. Why should we call for unfamiliar women to bring a flame?”

“It’s better not to think so much about the lyrics of Christmas songs, Thor.”

“I bet I can find at least 50 Jeanettes and 100 Isabellas.”

“That’s weird, Stark.”

“Yeah, probably.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s Wassailing?”

“Ooh! It’s harassing your neighbors for alcohol in exchange for music!”

“... thanks Steve.”

 

* * *

 

Phil thinks he’s having some kind of a flashback because again the conversation starts with Natasha saying, “No.”

And Tony saying, “Fuck no.”

But he’s not in a time warp, because the next thing Natasha says is, “That song is skeevy.”

“It’s _warbly,_ is what’s worse.”

“And you want me to be _romantic._ With _Stark. Again.”_

“Yeah, we are not a good pair.”

“A snowstorm would never deter me from leaving a pushy man.”

“Cool, me and Phil will do it,” Clint says.

“Not on your life, Hawkeye.”

 

* * *

 

When Christmas rolls around, the actual event is an utter, complete, unmitigated disaster. But strangely, that’s not because the Avengers are unprepared or unwilling to sing holiday music.

Because Sasha is a mind-bogglingly manipulative, the Avengers have selected three holiday songs, learned to harmonize, and have even arranged themselves so that their voices compliment one another. They actually seem excited. (Phil would call it a Christmas miracle, but his superstitious, circus-alumnus husband would make him knock on wood).

It’s a disaster because before they can sing a single note, because every one of the cats they sent to the negative zone last week suddenly make a reappearance. On the ice rink.

 

* * *

 

Hours of painful feline-sorting later, most of the cats have been returned to their rightful owners, and the team has congregated back at the tower.

Now, the Avengers are _moping_ around the Christmas tree. For all of their whining, they worked hard on those songs, and not getting to sing them seems to have brought them down.

Clint’s pretending to sleep but mostly obviously pouting with head in Phil’s lap. Natasha is doing a nearly-successful impression of stoicism as she watches the snow fall at the window. Stark is actively cranky, which agitates Rogers, and they’re engaging in bicker-snuggling on an overstuffed loveseat. Bruce is staring miserably into a cup of tea and Thor is hugging the toaster (which he believes to be a pet).

Well, it’s one kind of Silent Night, but not the kind they’d planned (they’d planned stille nacht, but the cats had prevented that one).

Phil sighs. There’s only one way to fix this and it’s goddamn ridiculous. But that’s what his life has become. Something strange and unpredictable and fantastic. He has a team of superheroes, he lives in Stark Tower and his PR manager is a Pink Slytherin. Also, his husband, currently pouting against his thigh, is undoubtedly the best thing that’s ever happened to him. What’s one song, when it’ll bring them all back around?

Yeah, Phil’s a goddamn Avenger, and all of the Avengers can sing. So he does.

 _“Fahoo fores, dahoo dores_  
_Welcome Christmas, come this way._  
_Fahoo fores, dahoo dores_  
_Welcome Christmas, Christmas day.”_

“The Whos!” Thor cheers over Phil starting the next stanza, and adds his probably literally magical baritone.

Natasha is looking at them suspiciously in the reflection of the window, but when she turns around, she’s got a tiny smile on her face. She has a clear, high voice, and it tangles up with Thor’s, echoing like the silly Dr. Suess characters.

 _Welcome, welcome fahoo ramus_  
_Welcome, welcome dahoo damus_  
_Christmas day is in our grasp_  
_So long as we have hands to clasp_

Bruce doesn’t seem to know the words, but he’s musical enough-- and brilliant enough-- to grasp the repetitive bass part and hum along with them. It’s warm and resounding and deep. Phil can feel it in his chest.

Tony’s never to be outdone and Steve simply can’t resist singing of any kind. When they burst into the song, Phil realizes that the two of them, for all they fight and poke at one another, are probably some kind of kismet starcrossed lovers. Just as on the battlefield, they simply slide into easy, gorgeous harmony with one another, like that’s where they belong.

 _Fahoo fores, dahoo dores_  
_Welcome Christmas, bring your cheer_  
_Fahoo fores, dahoo dores_  
_Welcome all who's far and near_

Clint raises his head from Phil’s lap, and his stormy eyes search Phil’s face almost incredulously. He smiles at him, that cocky, sweet smile that Phil fell in love with so many years ago. The rainbowy Christmas lights flicker in his golden hair, and his cheeks are just a little pink. Phil thinks about all of the Christmases they’ve missed. He thinks about the way this day has never been special for either of them, and how maybe, just maybe, here and now, he’s changing that.

Clint sings, and his voice is the most beautiful sound in the world, especially when it finds its place among everyone else’s.

 _“Welcome, Welcome, fahoo ramus,_  
_Welcome, Welcome, dahoo damus,_  
_Christmas Day will always be,_  
_Just so long as we have we._  
_Fahoo fores, dahoo dores,_  
_Welcome Christmas, bring your light.”_

There’s a long moment, and Phil is pretty sure he sees some glistening tears in Steve’s eyes, and Thor is beaming like an idiot. Clint nuzzles his head into his shoulder and laces their fingers together.

“Well,” Tony says, and clears his throat, “I think you’re singing first at the next Karaoke night, Phil.”


End file.
